The source and sight of so much conflict lies dormant. Tourists pass through and somebody tends to the poppies, but nobody stays.

He wonders why. Was this empty field worth the blood spilt if it was only ever going to be a home for the dead? Why did they fight so hard for this empty space? Do friendships grow amongst the friends and foes buried beneath the poppies?

The old soldier touches a medal on his chest. This land belongs to the fallen.

A bead of sweat rolled down his neck and made his spine tingle.He had been concentrating for so long his brain felt numb. The radio crackled to life.

No.

Not yet.

“Sir. Rebels are closing in. Requesting status report. Over.”

Not yet.

Gunfire raged overhead and the numbers and letters on the screen remained nonsensical. If he cracked this code he could crack the whole bloody war. At the start of all of this he had used the promise of fame and public recognition of his heroism to keep him motivated, but now… now he just wanted it to be over. He wanted to sit at home with a nice cup of tea and not have to worry about the state and safety of his country resting on the only message they had managed to intercept.

His tired, sweat hands diligently punched another set of options through the system. It lit up. There were a series of satisfying ‘pings’. He had done it. He nearly cried. He picked up the radio. “Commander. Rebel message has been decoded. Over.”